


green (like american money)

by bubblesodatea



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: APH Mafia Fam AU, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Chess Metaphors, Gen, Mafia AU, Russian Mafia, car metaphors, death mention, drug mention, just all kind of metaphors, russian naming conventions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 07:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19763347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblesodatea/pseuds/bubblesodatea
Summary: Alfred, undercover in the Russian mafia, finds it harder to hold onto the man he once was the deeper he dives into its inner workings.





	green (like american money)

The sharp pain in Alfred’s shoulders has dulled after a few hours in the chair; now it’s little more than a quiet throb. The steady hum of the tattoo machine acts as a kind of anesthetic. That, coupled with the chatter of the artist currently finishing up on his stars, is enough to take his mind off his current situation.

“You have a lot of experience with this?” Alfred asks the artist, peering over the dark rims of his glasses. They’re new, and he’s not entirely used to them yet—but then again, there’s a lot he’s not used to. There’s his put-on Texan drawl and his new name. It’s fitting, Alfred muses. He’s a new man.

“Of course,” the artist says, in a matter-of-fact way. “Do you think that the _Autorytet_ would have let me work on him if I wasn’t?”

She gives him a curious little smile, like they’re sharing an inside joke. Alfred responds with a vague hum of agreement and stares back up at the ceiling. He’s still new here. Alfred’s been briefed about the Vor v Zakone for hours on end, but it doesn’t take an Interpol agent like himself to figure out that joking about the leader of the Russian mafia won’t end well.

The next few minutes go by fast, and their tattoo session wraps up with less agony than he’d expected. Alfred looks in the mirror and sees the eight-pointed stars that are now a permanent part of him, one on each shoulder. 

“There you go,” the artist says, after she’s done cleaning and bandaging him up. Her short yellow hair bobs as she hands him back his shirt. “Now you are truly star-spangled.”

Alfred knows it’s a joke, a jibe at his clear American accent, but it still sends a shiver of fear up his spine—one that he hides by pretending to be intensely interested in the artist’s hairclip. It’s orange and shaped like a heart.

“Cute,” he says, his voice miles more regular than his heartbeat. “That come with the tattoo?”

“No, but I’m not against sharing from time to time.”

Alfred sits up straight and rolls his left shoulder. The fresh tattoo stings, but it’s bearable.

“How kind of you. A free tattoo, and now I even get fashion tips. Has a guy ever been this lucky?”

The artist laughs, and he laughs with her. The joke itself isn’t even funny, but there’s something ironic in the implication of anything in the Vory being _free_ that tickles Alfred pink. There’s not much of himself Alfred can drag into this underworld as a double agent, but it’s good to know that his dumb jokes are still a part of him.

“I appreciate someone who can make jokes whatever the situation,” she says, more at ease than before. “What’s your name?”

Once, it was Alfred F. Jones. Before that, Alfred Frydyrekovich Janowski. But he’s not _Alfred_ anymore. He can’t be, if he wants to stay afloat masquerading as a mafioso.

So he extends his right hand and introduces himself as Clark Gałczyński.

\--- 

Alfred spends less time at the headquarters than he expected, but he figures that it makes sense for a fresh face like him. They send him on errands, on the less important disturbances around town. He’s well aware that even when he’s alone at his dingy little apartment, there are eyes on him. 

So he adjusts. He cuts off contact with Interpol. He starts doing things differently—walks instead of drives and eats oatmeal for breakfast instead of Froot Loops because something tells him that most mafia men don’t eat American cereal. Alfred chokes down every bite and prays that whoever’s watching him will appreciate his sacrifices for the Vory. 

He’s called to the headquarters one day, and so he walks uptown to the gated mansion where those at the top of the proverbial food chain reside. By the time Alfred gets there, he’s exhausted and more than a little bitter that he didn’t think to get a new car before he went off the grid for this assignment.

The mansion isn’t like anything Alfred would have imagined to be the hotbed for the mafia in his civilian days. It’s extravagant and isolated, but otherwise a rather nondescript display of wealth, seeming much like any other generic European vacation home. He had pictured the Kremlin painted black.

A guard lets him in, and Alfred has to catch his breath once he steps into the receiving room. Nothing clashes in this room, even though the furnishing lacks any cohesive theme or era. Each piece practically drips with money. 

There’s a polite _hem-hem_ , and Alfred has to tear his eyes away from a grand piano that appears to be made entirely out of ivory. 

“Clark Gałczyński, was it? The American Pole. Tynia has spoken of you.” 

The man asking is slight, with mousy brown hair and a friendly expression. Alfred straightens up and shakes the man’s hand. 

“Tynia?” 

The man flushes. “Klementyna.”

Alfred recognizes that name as the tattoo artist’s, and the memory of his rapport with her makes him feel a little more at ease in the mansion. The brunet man seems to be fond of her, if the pet name and the glint in his eye is anything to go by. 

“I’m Toris.” A beat. “Braginksy sent for you.”

This isn’t quite what Alfred was expecting, and yet he’s not entirely surprised. Alfred’s only caught a glimpse of the boss from time to time; after all, he’s still little more than a glorified lackey. Perhaps Alfred has been on trial long enough that Braginsky figures he’s here to stay. Or maybe the jig is up, and Toris is sending him to his death—but Alfred’s the same bundle of nerves and adrenaline either way. 

Toris leads him up the double staircase, through the hall, and past dozens of closed doors. The further away from the front doors he walks, the more lived-in his surroundings feel. Alfred keeps his eyes ahead, but he catches glimpses of his fellow Vor chatting or playing cards. The casualness of it all makes it feel even more unsettling to him, and it comes with the realization that some of these people have lived their entire lives in the Vory.

He’s directed towards a pair of double doors. Alfred walks forward, hyperaware that Toris doesn’t follow him in. The room is dimly lit, and the click of his blue suede shoes is muffled by the carpet underfoot. There are no unobstructed windows, and the arrangement of the room makes it look like a seldom-used office. There are no other exits. 

Alfred’s heart is buzzing as he looks up and locks eyes with the Russian kingpin.

Ivan Rostovich Braginsky is a large man, and the way that his muscular body folds itself into the slick leather chair makes it sickeningly apparent. He lazes, his passive energy already enough to seize all of Alfred’s attention. Braginsky’s dressed in a fur coat that spills over the chair’s armrests, his legs crossed over at the ankle. Alfred’s no small fry, but Braginsky is titanic. 

A smile crosses the scarred surface of Braginsky’s face. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Clark, how good it is to finally meet you. You must believe that I have enjoyed hearing about your first weeks in our family,” Braginsky says. The boss’ voice is softer than Alfred had imagined, a deep rumble that buries itself into the pit of Alfred’s stomach.

“I’m sure whatever you’ve heard about me is nothing compared to your legacy,” Alfred says. Braginsky’s smile widens, and he beckons for Alfred to step closer; Alfred does so until he’s a breath away from where the man is sitting. It’s only in the half-minute of silence that Alfred realizes there are others in this room: a woman to Braginsky’s right and a shadowy man curled up in the corner.

The woman cooes and reaches out for Alfred’s cheek. She’s curvy and doe-eyed, with plump arms to match her comforting air. Her blondeness complements Braginsky, and Alfred wonders if the two are related.

“How handsome you are!” She sounds more doting than flirtatious. “There’s light behind in eyes that too many men lack these days. Not amongst us, of course, but those just starting out have been less and less perceptive lately. Perhaps you’re something different.” 

She’s all sugar, clad in a blousy outfit that rustles when she moves. Alfred can see bandages on her knuckles, and the smell of blood mingles with her perfume as she leans in to give him a kiss on the cheek. His eyelashes flutter close as she pulls away. Of course. There’s not a person here whose hands are clean, no matter how saccharine their persona is. 

“There’s danger in men who are _too_ perceptive,” Braginsky murmurs. 

“I’m thoroughly average, sir,” Alfred says. Braginsky chuckles, eyes running over Alfred’s form. 

“No, I think not. It’s nothing to be humble about, Clark. I have always preferred the company of those who are remarkable over those who offer me no excitement.” 

He waves a large hand at the woman. “For example, Yekaterina. I believe it is your first time meeting her. Exceptional, isn’t she?” 

Yekaterina smiles and wraps an arm around Braginsky. “You’re too charming, Vanya.” 

Alfred’s mouth is dry. He’s still not sure if Yekaterina is Braginsky’s sister or lover, and he’s not sure which answer would be more reassuring. The possessive manner in which Braginsky is angled towards Yekaterina makes it clear that the man doesn’t share. 

Braginsky takes Alfred’s hand into his own and examines the fresh cuts that mark his skin. Alfred doesn’t pull away.

“You seem to be awfully worn out for a man whose day has just started,” Braginsky notes. 

“I walked here, sir. There was an… an incident this morning. It’s all taken care of,” Alfred says.

“No car?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Such a pity. A man like you deserves a machine just as capable. How else would you serve your full potential for the family?” 

Braginsky drops his hand, and Alfred wipes his sweaty palms off on his pants as subtly as possible. Braginsky’s eyes are calculating; there’s something in them that Alfred should be bracing himself for, but he’s not sure what.

He smiles again, and Alfred is dismissed with a wave of Braginsky’s hand. Toris is still standing outside the doors, and he gives Alfred a smile like weak tea when he walks past. Alfred returns it. 

The scent of perfume and power lingers on his clothes all the way home. 

\---

When Alfred wakes up the next morning and walks downstairs, there’s a shining blue 1955 Thunderbird parked in his garage. 

\---

Alfred has someone inspect the car “ _for any defects in the machinery. My grandpa gave it to me, and I’m worried his mind ain’t in the right place nowadays,_ ” and looks over it himself. Both tests warrant the same result: all clear. There’s no doubt in his mind who gave him the Thunderbird, but there’s still the question _why_. It’s definitely not out of Braginsky’s generosity.

The fact that it’s okay to drive only makes Alfred feel nominally safer—sure, it’s not an outright bomb, but that only means that he’s being set up for an entirely different kind of trap. Braginsky doesn’t play well with ‘subtle,’ Alfred knows, but that doesn’t mean the man can’t scheme. 

The next few days are as quiet as life in the Vory can be. He’s left to his own devices, and he spends the time gathering his experiences together and putting them on paper. Alfred knows too much about technology to rely on it. 

He writes down notes in his shorthand (and his handwriting is already messy enough to be an indecipherable code of its own), which he puts in a sealed folder, which he tucks into a lockbox disguised as a book. The book is hidden in a box of novels, and then stuffed under his bed. It’s convoluted as hell, but he figures that there’s really no such thing as paranoid in this line of work. 

Alfred’s only called out once in the month after meeting with Braginsky. After a full sixteen hours spent helping a cheery Yekaterina smuggle in a truckload of cocaine, they get pastries and laugh together when a dog wearing a raincoat trots by them. It feels normal, like he’s out with a friend. He even takes a picture of the dog and shows Toris afterwards, still smelling like coke. 

Alfred wonders if he’ll be able to tell when he’s in too deep. 

\--- 

He’s playing chess with Toris and Klementyna, the tattoos on his shoulders now fully healed. Without the raw, red sensation of the pinpricks on his skin, they feel like they’ve always been there. His opponents share a bittersweet smile when he tells them this. 

“Well, it’s good to know they’re healing,” Klementyna says, and she leans over to whisper something into Toris’ ear. Alfred spins his bishop in his hand as he waits for them to take their turn—they’re playing together as a team, which he supposes would have been sweet if they hadn’t turned out to be so good at it. He’s got twenty Euro riding on this.

“Are you enjoying Europe, Gałczyński?” Toris asks. Alfred, as Clark, had told the Vory that he had never stepped foot outside of America prior to him joining the family. It was technically true. _Clark_ had never been to Europe before, because he hadn’t existed before. 

“Yeah, it’s great. Lotsa culture. Unique people. You know they keep us busy, so I don’t have much time to sight-see, but it’s pretty all the same,” Alfred says. He winks at the pair. “You know, y’all can call me Clark. I’m more comfortable being on a first name basis.”

“How American! But I wouldn’t mind if you called me Klementyna,” the tattoo artist says, leaning over Toris and the board to take Alfred’s rook.

“Not Tynia?” Alfred jokes. 

“Only Toris calls me that,” Klementyna says, throwing a grin over her shoulder at her ( _lover? partner? boyfriend?_ ) companion. Whatever they are, there’s a certain closeness between the pair that Alfred was surprised to find in the Vory. Their camaraderie made Alfred feel more at ease in the mansion.

There’s the sound of footsteps. Alfred straightens himself up, and he doesn’t miss how Toris and Klementyna drop their expressions as well. 

Standing at the doorway is a lithe woman paler than anyone Alfred’s seen before, which is remarkable considering the company he keeps at the Vory. She’s lovely in a severe kind of way, a frown tugging on the corner of her rouged lips. At her heel is a grey Russian wolfhound half her height. 

Silently, she takes a seat on the chair next to Alfred, and he has to scoot to the side so that she can adjust the voluminous skirt of her dress to fit under the table. The dog ambles to the woman’s side and settles at her feet. 

Neither of Alfred’s colleagues say anything. Toris looks at him expectantly. 

“I don’t think I’ve gotten to meet you yet. I’m Clark Gałczyński,” Alfred says, offering his hand out to shake. The woman stares at it like he just held out a dead rodent. 

“Why have you stopped playing?” she asks, irritation cutting into her tone. It’s clear that she expects them to be her entertainment for the hour.

Alfred moves his pawn, and Toris retaliates by moving his bishop. After a few turns, their chatting still has yet to resume. The woman makes no effort to warm the chill she’s brought to the air. 

When Alfred looks over at her, the sour expression on her face is gone, replaced by intense concentration. He castles his king, and she groans.

“Gałczyński is going to lose. You should collect the pot now,” she says to Toris and Klementyna. Alfred bristles. 

“How do you know that? The game’s not over, and I’ve taken more guys than they have,” he says, gesturing to his pile of discarded black pieces. 

“You spread your pieces out too thin and paid attention to the trivial things. Now, no matter what you do next, the black queen could take your king.” 

The woman plucks up his king and demonstrates the different ways “Clark” will lose. She pushes his twenty Euro note towards the pair and looks expectantly at him, daring him to refute her. When Alfred remains silent, she stands back up and gives him a look equal parts derisive and pitying. 

“An idiot easily distracted by what his opponents set up for him is walking either to the death of his character, or a literal decay.” 

With a rather aggressive flounce of her skirt, she trails out of the room. The dog follows her, and the rapid clacking of its paws creates a less-than-impressive exit for the woman. It would be funny if her words didn’t ring true to Alfred in more than just chess. 

“She doesn’t usually...interact that much with newcomers,” Toris says with sympathy. He takes a look at the note in front of him and tries to hand it back to Alfred, but the blond shakes his head. 

“Nothing I’ve never dealt with before. Y’all won fair and square—well, as fair as two against one can be.” He flashes the pair a smile. They mull over playing a rematch, but the air in the room’s different. Her words were unsettling.

Such is Alfred’s introduction to Natalia Rostova Arlovskaya.

\---

There’s a party one night, and Clark is invited. When Alfred pulls up to the mansion in the Thunderbird, he ends up having to park quite a distance uphill due to the sheer number of cars crowding the driveway. He takes extra care not to wrinkle his best suit as he steps inside. 

The party is large, almost Gatsbyesque, with a live band and free-flowing alcohol. Alfred pours himself enough bourbon to still appear celebratorynot look uncelebratory, but too little to get drunk. He sips slowly and realizes that he still doesn’t know what this party is supposed to be celebrating. A few familiar faces stand out to him, but he doesn’t see anyone he knows by name. There’s a man slouched in the corner, clashing with the gaiety of the room. The man notices Alfred looking at him and stares back shamelessly. It’s weird, but the openness of it is strangely enticing.

Alfred feels compelled to go over and talk to the man. 

He’s halfway to him when he feels a hand on his shoulder. Alfred turns around and finds himself staring straight into the violet-grey eyes of Braginsky, with very little room between them. The boss is dressed snappily in a plum tailored suit, a chrysanthemum tucked into the lapel. 

“Clark,” Braginsky murmurs, tilting his chin down. “I pray you’ve been well. Are you enjoying your new car?” 

“Yes, sir. If you don’t mind me asking: why a Thunderbird?” Alfred replies. 

“It’s a fine American machine. Dangerous. Convertible. I thought it would suit you. Did I assume wrong?” 

Alfred shakes his head, buying time by taking another sip of bourbon. He knows he’s being baited into something, but there’s nothing he can do about it right now. Alfred just has to match the boss’ pace.

He’s jarred from his thoughts when Braginsky reaches out and brushes his finger against a nick on Alfred’s jaw. 

“Another incident, Clark?” 

Alfred swallows hard. “Just an accident shaving.” 

Braginsky tsks, but removes his hand from Alfred’s face. He looks off to the side, and Alfred follows his gaze. The man who had caught Alfred’s attention has disappeared from his spot on the couch, so he can’t fathom what Braginsky is looking at.

“It is quite a celebration, isn’t it? I don’t tend to pay much attention to any birthdays after eighteen, but I am not a humble enough man to refuse a party.” 

“You deserve one,” Alfred says with more enthusiasm than he feels. “Happy birthday.” 

Alfred feels like a child who has shown off his ability to count to ten. The boss smiles indulgently at him, and Braginsky plucks the flower off his suit and presses it against Alfred’s chest. The stars on his skin ache.

“Enjoy the party, Gałczyński.” 

It feels like a warning. 

Braginsky moves past him and back into the crowd, letting the greetings and congratulations from those around him stand alone. Alfred tucks the flower into his pocket and does his best to clear his mind of Braginsky. 

He looks across the room to see Klementyna, dressed in sage green. She waves him over, a pensive look on her face.

“Where’s Toris?” Alfred asks. 

She gestures vaguely towards the bar. “Getting me a drink. He probably got caught up talking to Tino.” 

Her tone is casual, but her shoulders are stiff, and Alfred doesn’t miss how she scrutinizes everyone near them.

“It’s nice to have everyone celebrate the _Autorytet_ like this,” Alfred says, trying to do an imitation of her slick Polish. Klementyna nods stiffly. 

“Yes, it is.” 

They’re blessedly rescued from having to discuss the boss when Toris swoops in, handing Klementyna a glass of vodka. Alfred notes with amusement that they’re wearing matching shades of green. 

“Was that intentional?” he asks, gesturing at them with his glass. Toris blinks at him, puzzled. 

“Was what intentional?” Toris asks, and Alfred’s about to tease him for it when he catches sight of Natalia. 

Her hair is arranged neatly with a diamond headband, and her makeup is impeccable. The only thing to ruin this vision is the stormy expression on her face as she strides towards them. Braginsky spots her and smiles fondly, but no one else calls any attention to her.

She approaches them.

“Klementyna. Toris. You must be enjoying the celebration,” Natalia says. It sounds more like an order than a question. “Gałczyński, I need you to drive me.” 

Alfred blinks, and glances over to the back of Braginsky’s head. “I...don’t think that he would be happy if he knew I left the party.” 

Natalia juts her chin up. “He’ll be angrier when he finds out you stayed and let me down.” 

Toris tilts his head, indicating that Alfred should go with her, so Alfred sets his drink down. 

“I reckon you’re right. Let me get my coat, and you can tell me what you need.” 

Natalia leads Alfred out the back door and up the driveway. He’s surprised when they stop at his car. There’s a large bundle under the tail end of the Thunderbird, and Alfred’s stomach lurches when he realizes it’s a body wrapped in a bedsheet. He’s not unfamiliar with gore, but that doesn’t make it any more pleasant.

“Jesus,” he mutters, poking the lump with his toe. It doesn’t move. 

“I couldn’t carry it by myself, so I had to roll it from my car to yours,” Natalia grouses, and Alfred is reminded of Sisyphus. He hands Natalia the keys and she pops the trunk open. They stuff the body into the tight space. 

“Doesn’t look very comfortable,” he notes. 

“He’s dead.” 

“What’d he do?”

“He tried to cheat the family out of his debts.” 

“That’s it?” Alfred asks. The hit itself isn’t surprising, but the fact that a high-ranking Vor like Natalia was the one to deliver it is. 

Natalia slams the trunk shut. “And he annoyed me.” 

They silently arrange themselves into their seats and Alfred starts driving, turning where Natalia tells him to. It’s a thirty minute drive in the dark, and they don’t so much as pass another light on the road. When she finally tells him to park, they’re at the edge of a lake. 

It’s a pretty scene. There are hills around the lake, blanketed in black due to the heavy night sky, and the only illumination comes from the moon and stars overhead. Natalia wastes no time scrambling out of the car, her hair blown wild around her face from the drivetopless convertible. Alfred follows after her.

She’s shivering rather furiously, and so is he—Natalia, from the cold (her dress is thin and silk), and him, from nerves (he’s probably looking at the sight where his own body will be sunk someday). Alfred shrugs off his overcoat and hands it to Natalia, and she takes it without a word.

He bridal-carries the body, letting Natalia lead him around as she looks for a suitable spot on the shore. 

“Here,” Natalia says once they’re about a quarter around the lake. The water looks the same here as it does anywhere else, but Alfred nods.

“Why here?”

“The water’s deepest here,” Natalia says, and gestures for him to set the body down. Alfred wonders why, but then realizes that dropping the mass from four feet up would probably cause a loud splash. 

“I’ve never gotten rid of a body before,” Alfred says dryly. Natalia glares at him, but otherwise makes no indication that she can hear him speaking. 

Natalia helps Alfred push the corpse into the water. It takes a solid minute, but it rolls off the shore and into the depths. The weight of it causes the surface of the water to ripple as the body sinks. 

Natalia looks away, bored, but Alfred peers down into the water and watches the dark shape grow smaller and smaller. He reaches into his pocket and tosses Braginsky’s flower down after the corpse. It’s the best he can do for this poor creature.

Natalia pulls out a cigarette, which looks like it belongs perfectly between her thin fingers. She fumbles around for a match, and Alfred pulls out his lighter; he might not be a smoker, but Clark seemed like a character who knows all the added bonuses a Zippo can bring. Right now, it’s getting to see Natalia delicately light the cigarette and bring it to her lips, the flame licking close enough to her undone hair that Alfred can smell smoke. She offers one to Alfred, but he shakes his head. 

“I don’t smoke.” 

She raises an eyebrow and snaps the box shut. “How quaint.” Her tone makes it clear that she thinks nothing of the sort. “Gałczyński, a man without vice.” 

Alfred avoids her steely gaze, watching the moon. The surface of the lake is still now, not a breath held in its waters. Somewhere, maybe miles below, the body—a man is sinking his way down through the indigo deep. Alfred stands on the shore, still alive to enjoy life’s multitude of sins and even more to repent for them. The crisp air of the countryside is intermingled with wisps of smoke.

He exhales.

Wordlessly, he reaches his hand out for a cigarette. Natalia looks surprised; the expression doesn’t suit her. It’s almost amusing to see her wide eyed, lips loosely parted, but she recovers her icy facade quickly and hands him a smoke. Alfred holds it between his lips and leans in, using the end of her cigarette to light his. 

“I suppose it’s never too late to unlearn some manners,” Alfred says, _sotto voce_.

Their eyes meet, and then they both look away. Alfred refocuses his gaze on the moon: pale, distant, constant. It’s cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. 

If he can stay alive—if he can keep his head above water—then there’s nothing for him to worry about. Alfred can become one with the mafia, learn its secrets, and then report back to Interpol. Life will be normal again.

But if he sinks, then he's dragging them all down with him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: with the publication of this fic, I now have a walloping two whole completed stories on the internet. Out of around twenty.
> 
> This fic was inspired by yosb’s lovely mafia au on tumblr! I really admire all the thought and nuance you’ve put into it, so thank you for letting me play in your sandbox. I’m really looking forward to seeing how it grows!
> 
> Some notes on Slavic names: Natalia and Ivan both have the patronymic “Rostov” (Rostova and Rostovich, respectively), but they have different surnames. I wanted to keep it vague, but my idea was that they have the same father, but different mothers. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please leave a review if you feel so inclined!


End file.
